


You're my compass and my sea

by Glaciere



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1252882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glaciere/pseuds/Glaciere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't a proper holiday unless there's lots of lazy morning sex, nice food and some birds; or, Harry and Louis take a week off to relax in Jamaica.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're my compass and my sea

**Author's Note:**

> Title (slightly paraphrased) taken from the song Milk & Black Spiders by Foals.

The magpies seem to be disapproving of Harry’s cooking abilities. 

“’S not my fault your fridge is empty,” he says by means of defending himself. The magpies remain as unconvinced and judgmental as they were when Harry stumbled into the kitchen at ten in the morning, his back hurting after sleeping in an unfamiliar bed.

The whole villa is decorated with birds - small figurines, paintings on the walls, bloody giant wooden magpies with permanent scowls overlooking the kitchen from the bookshelf. Harry supposes it’s only fitting for a villa named Bird’s Hill.

He gives up on the idea of making breakfast after fifteen minutes of searching every cupboard for anything edible. The whole dining area is smaller than even the one in the LA house, because Harry can compromise on a lot of things, but cooking space has never been one of them. It doesn’t bother him much here. The complete lack of any doors gives the villa an illusion of spaciousness.

Both of his suitcases are still in the living room. Louis' duffel bag is thrown over them upside down, probably wrecking the clothes inside. They managed to arrive to Jamaica at roughly the same time; Louis spent the hour-long midnight drive to the resort dozing off on Harry's shoulder and barely woke up enough to faceplant on the bed. 

Harry unlocks the suitcase trying to make as little noise as he can. He is rummaging inside for the shorts he's sure he had packed when Louis stumbles from the bedroom and plasters himself over Harry's back.

"Going somewhere?"

Louis' breath tickles the dip between Harry's neck and shoulder; he left a mark there before flying to England a week ago. Harry shivers at the memory and tugs out his shorts and a t-shirt that might have been Zayn's at some point. 

"Is that mine?" Louis asks, poking at the t-shirt.

"Zayn's," Harry answers absently. "'M gonna get some breakfast, you want to come?"

Louis wrinkles his nose. "It's too early to deal with people. Can't you whip something up?"

"There's, like, a carton of juice in the fridge, it's a disaster," Harry says. "It's either the restaurant or grocery shopping."

Louis pauses throwing clothes out of the bag onto the carpet and the sofa to narrow his eyes at Harry. "You just want to raid Jamaican supermarkets, don't you."

Harry widens his eyes, trying for innocent, but Louis just snorts and turns back to the bag until he finally finds his training shorts at the bottom of it next to the Rovers jersey.

"Come on, Becks," Harry says, the corner of his mouth tugging up. "I need my proteins."

"Bite me, Styles," Louis replies easily, jogging after him out the door. Harry has to remind himself not to watch his arse too overtly and then remembers that he can if he wants to, here.

The restaurant is close to empty this time of day. The only customers are a middle-aged couple engrossed in conversation. As soon as they sit down a waiter appears from nowhere. Louis keeps nudging Harry's foot with his own under the table the whole time he chats with the waiter about the wonderful Blue Mountains and the wonderful Blue Mountains weather and the wonderful Blue Mountains coffee that they just _have_ to try. 

"How was France?" Harry cuts into his omelet with rice and watches as Louis curls his lip in disdain.

"More unbearable than usual," Louis says. "I swear Magee must have asked Eleanor to bring the most annoying people she knows." He pokes his eggs. "Sorry I haven't called all weekend, the reception was shite."

"It's alright." Harry looks at the other couple, who appear to still be paying Louis and him no mind, and covers Louis' hand with his, laces their fingers together. It's not meant as reassurance. Harry always misses physical contact, always wants to touch Louis, has grown used to his near-constant presence. It’s hard to be apart at this point. He has been busy all week, but he still couldn’t sleep properly with the other side of the bed empty and cold. When he looks up, Louis is staring at their joined hands. 

"I should get a new one," he says after a while with a lopsided smile, squeezes Harry's hand back. The anchor on Harry's wrist is just beginning to fade, the black no longer so stark on his skin. Harry is thinking of getting a new one himself. It's a half-formed idea for now, so he shakes it out of his head - literally. His hair falls into his eyes and he makes an annoyed noise.

Louis laughs at him and stands up. 

"Come on, sailor, it's adventure time."

Adventure time consists of football on the field between their villa and the next one. They technically have a courtyard to themselves (as well as a private jacuzzi, which is so going to be used later if Harry has a say at all) but it's barely large enough for a tennis table, nevermind kicking a ball around. 

"I'm skipping my precious training time for your birthday, so shush," Louis says sternly when Harry so much as asks where he got a football. 

Harry raises his hands. "I thought training time was like, squats? Will you be doing squats? I vote for squats, Lou."

"In your dreams, mate," Louis kicks the ball at him. Harry misses it spectacularly, grins wide and sees the answering smile on Louis' face. "Did I tell you there's a Lewis on the team?" Louis asks.

"I thought that was you?"

"No, there's seriously a Lewis on the team," Louis kicks the ball up a couple of times, does a complicated feint with his legs that makes Harry forget they are playing and stare at his thighs and calves. He thinks suddenly that he is still nineteen and a growing boy who needs a lot of--

There's a ball in his face. 

Harry oomphs, laughs at Louis' decidedly undignified shriek and stumbles on something, all at the same time. He lands on his arse still laughing and yells, "That's domestic violence!" startling a bird nearby into flight.

Louis punches him in the shoulder, then cups his face with both hands.

"Should've gone with squats." Harry tilts his head up to look at Louis with his too-long hair and warm, worried eyes and he's so head over heels it aches somewhere deep in his chest. Harry thinks that if he didn’t receive anatomy lessons in school he could still pinpoint the exact location of his heart just from that feeling alone. "I could've appreciated your arse instead of being sucker punched by balls in the face." He wiggles his eyebrows for effect.

"Stop trying to make a funny, Harold, you'll sprain something," Louis murmurs, leans down to kiss his temple. "You alright?"

Harry catches his wrist in a loose grip. "Yeah. There are people looking, you know."

There aren't a lot of guests - several couples, maybe a total of seven people at the pool nearby. Some of them look away when Harry meets their gazes, but no one gives any indication they recognize either of them. The privacy in this place is impeccable. Harry needs to call James and thank him for the tip. 

"Do I look like I give a fuck?" Louis tugs him up and laces their fingers together for several seconds before letting go and stepping away. He makes a face. "I'm going to take a shower, do not," he says, jabbing a finger into Harry's chest, "think it's an invitation."

"But I need a shower, too," Harry protests. 

"You're welcome to take it after me," Louis says primly. "It's our anniversary week and you haven't even taken me to dinner. No putting out before dinner!"

"You're a slave driver!" Harry calls after him. Louis just laughs.

They are both unsure of when their anniversary actually is; he and Louis have never _not_ been in a relationship, never were just friends. Even those early X-Factor days were spent flirting, slowly drifting towards each other and, in Harry's case, forever embarrassing himself. Harry thinks they must have worked out the terms somewhere in late January, because he remembers introducing Louis to his mother as his boyfriend, but then Jay let it slip that Louis told her about having a boyfriend around Christmas, which at the time left Harry unable to wipe a dopey smile from his face for hours. So they change it up every year, depending on their schedule. 

Harry still can't believe they've had so much time off. Louis spent most of January flying in and out of LA on 5SOS business, and with Harry managing to wiggle out of anything other than the bare minimum of outings with Kendall they took the time to make the LA house look less like a part-time rubbish bin and more like an actual house. 

The LA house is an accident. They bought it on a whim after a holiday with the band and haven't had the time to sort it out since. Harry has been storing art in their London house for close to a year; he has most of the place figured out in terms of what he wants to do with it. He has to return to LA just after the Brits, both for the holiday he has promised his parents and work, and he'll probably look like an art smuggler.

As it happens, when Harry finally calls James a few days later James informs him he's in Jamaica as well and they need to catch up. 

"Isn't it your birthday tomorrow?" James asks. "We're here with Gary, you know, Barlow, and kids, but I promise to make him leave his daughters at the hotel. Did you bring the wife?"

"There's no wife, James, that's kind of the point of being gay," Harry says sternly. "I'm asking him."

"Is that Corden on the phone? Will you tell him to sod off with the wife, yeah?" Louis yells from the kitchen where he's trying to wrestle a sandwich out of a stiff takeaway container. 

"Am I that predictable?" James sounds forlorn and Harry can't help but laugh. 

"You make the wife joke like, every time, man."

"You're a sad excuse for a comedian, Corden," Louis says into the phone, leaning into Harry.

"James wants to meet up, he's in Jamaica," Harry explains. "They are leaving on the second, so tomorrow is all they've got."

"Sure," Louis says and kisses him on the cheek. "Tell him to bring Max so we can steal him."

"I can hear you, you know," James says. "We'll pick you up around five then?"

***  
Harry wakes up to a barrage of text messages, emails and a handful of notifications from those acquaintances who chose to wish him happy birthday on Twitter. He flops onto his back and Louis makes a sleepy, annoyed sound at being jostled. Harry fluffs a pillow and sits up a bit. Louis ends up smashed face down on Harry’s lower stomach.

He sends three rows of white rabbits to his mother first for good luck, goes on Twitter to reply to a couple of messages. By the time he's made it to his inbox Louis is stirring. 

"Is it an ungodly hour?" he asks.

"Yeah," Harry says. It's barely eight. "Go back to sleep."

"You're moving too much," Louis burrows closer, trying to squint into his phone. "What's up?"

“Your mother says the babies were kicking it hardcore this morning,” Harry says. “I think they like me.”

“I swear you get more baby updates than Dan.” Louis gropes the bedside table for his own phone to check the time and groans. “Fuck, it’s early. Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Glad it’s come up.”

Louis smirks at him. “Here I was, thinking about giving you a birthday blowjob…”

“And they say romance is dead,” Harry says dryly. “Don’t let me stop you or anything.”

Louis straddles him suddenly, his smirk turning positively lewd. He leans closer, until his face is inches away from Harry’s. “Now, didn’t your mother teach you to ask nicely?”

He grinds down tortuously slow. Harry bites his lip to stop himself from hissing. “Never mentioned a word about it.”

He is getting half-hard just from this slow grinding, from Louis’ hips under his fingers. Louis’ eyelashes flutter for a moment before he slides all the way down in the vee between Harry’s legs, pushing the covers to the foot of the bed. Harry is very good at staying still, but he jerks when Louis scratches his cock with his nails. They both like it this side of rough, only Louis also likes to tease, because he’s a smug fucker and likes it when Harry begs. Not that Harry is against begging, especially when there are promises of blowjobs involved, but he vaguely remembers he’s refusing to beg on principle at the moment. Or something.

“Come on,” he whines, Louis’ breath hot on his cock, ghosting around it. Harry bucks up and gasps from a sudden flash of hot pain as Louis bites into his inner thigh high and hard in retaliation. He really is unfairly good at unraveling Harry, making him lose his train of thought at a mere touch, sometimes a glance. There are times Harry gets stuck on the way Louis’ lips move when he sings, almost touching the microphone the way he’s almost touching his cock right now.

Louis takes his cock’s head into his mouth and lets it slip out right after.

“What about now?”

“Please,” Harry says immediately. Fuck principles. Harry has no principles when it comes to Louis, he only ever wants more, with the intensity that used to scare him but now just burns under his skin. “ _Please._ ”

He gets rock hard fast when Louis goes down on him. Harry pulls his knees up and bends a little to get his hand into Louis’ hair, slides it until he can feel his throat working under his fingertips. Louis looks up at him before taking him in as deep as he can. He swallows around Harry’s cock and grinds his fingers into the bite mark on Harry’s thigh at the same time, then does it again and again until Harry is certain Louis is going to leave his fingerprints burned into his skin.

It’s too early for this torture. Harry arches up when Louis abandons his thigh in favor of dipping his fingers under his balls and adding pressure. He’s sucking in earnest, now. Filthy sounds he makes turn Harry on as much as the fingers circling his arsehole. Harry bites on his wrist to keep from crying out.

Louis adds a hint of teeth, just a tad of almost-painful pressure on already hypersensitive skin, and Harry comes undone with an audible gasp. Louis drags himself up and buries his face in the crook of Harry’s neck, biting down. They are both covered in lovebites from the past few days, most of them fading. Harry wraps his wrist over Louis’ and forces him to pick up the rhythm. Louis moans into his neck. They are opposite in this - Harry never makes much noise, but Louis is loud enough for both of them. His free hand is pressed into Harry’s forearm for leverage, thumb pressing into skin hard enough to leave a bruise. Harry feels him shudder and cups his hand over the head of Louis’ cock as he comes.

Harry licks some of his come off his palm, but it’s cooling off too quickly to manage all of it. He wipes the rest with a towel they’ve left at the night stand yesterday.

“So,” Louis drawls, “How was the first shag of your twentieth year? Feel free to elaborate.”

His hair is damp at the ends, plastered to his neck. It’s getting too long but with his and Lou’s schedules never aligning (or Louis being outright lazy when it does) he still hasn’t got around to cutting it.

“About as spectacular as my last shag as a nineteen year old,” Harry says. “We need to tip the laundry lady.”

“You need to tip _me_ ,” Louis opens his phone and hugs Harry closer, snapping a picture of them together. Harry looks about as aware as he always does after a shag, which is to say not at all. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are round and glassy and it’s all around unattractive. Louis just looks slightly flushed and pleased with himself. Harry looks at the picture again, then at Louis. Maybe on a smug side.

“I admit, I would’ve thought I’d get better in the sack after three years, you know,” Louis continues conversationally. 

“If you get any better I might actually die before I hit thirty,” Harry says, voice flat. Louis just raises his eyebrows up at him. Definitely on the smug side. Harry blushes. “Shut up.”

Louis just laughs, messes his hair up some more and kisses him. It’s not too heated. They aren’t trying to start anything and it’s time to get up, but Harry melts into it nonetheless, soaking up the attention. 

“Happy birthday,” Louis says, kisses him again at the side of his mouth. “I’m probably going to love you more this year, fair warning.”

“Is that even, like, scientifically possible,” Harry mumbles. He’s pretty sure it is. He promised this exact thing to Louis on Christmas Eve and it’s held so far.

The air conditioning in the villa works on a schedule known only to higher powers, but most of the time it can be relied on to not work at all. Since the windows in the kitchen and the door to the veranda that wraps around the house face the mountains, Harry just leaves all of them open at night.

He’s been doing his morning yoga on the veranda instead of the patio since a girl recognized him on his second morning there. At home he usually goes into the back garden if he has time, or half-arses it in the living room if he doesn’t. It has a nice routine to it, at once calming him and making him more alert.

The CD player is blasting something vaguely familiar, the dial turned all the way up because Louis dislikes making breakfast in silence. Louis dislikes silence most of the time. Harry thinks he’s been Stockholm-syndromed into a no-silence zone by his sisters.

There’s a dirt path heading down from Bird’s Hill to the pool. It’s the only decent wi-fi spot, and Harry has to answer at least some of his emails before they get swallowed by the sheer mass of tour-related chains. 

He’s barely there for five minutes when someone sits on the lounge chair next to him. Harry looks up, expecting Louis, but it’s one of the other guests, a middle-aged man in glasses. Harry tenses up when he notices a golden band around the man’s ring finger. The man doesn’t fall into the age range of an average One Direction fan, but married men tend to have children that do.

The man catches Harry staring and smiles at him, friendly enough. He clearly doesn’t know who Harry is, but just as clearly interested in a conversation. Harry groans inwardly.

“Family holiday?” he asks, forced to say something to not seem like a creep.

“Oh, it’s just my husband and I,” the man waves a hand. “Our fifth year here. All our friends prefer to stay at GoldenEye, but that place is a celebrity hotspot nowadays. Can’t go two feet without meeting a new popstar.”

“Our friends are staying there,” Harry is trying to keep an interested expression on his face and read his emails at the same time. The one at the top is from Nick. It’s marked _WORK IT, BABY_ and might actually be about work. There’s always a chance. He probably needs to read that.

“This place is quiet, just right for the old farts like me and Tom. You’re the youngest person I’ve seen here.”

“Um.” Harry says. “It’s my birthday, so. And we like quiet,” he adds. The man laughs. 

“Isn’t that you and your young man in Bird’s Hill? We’ve all heard your music.” 

Harry is startled out of Nick’s email (it turns out to not be work-related after all) by his phone ringing. The caller ID says it’s Louis, but when Harry answers, it’s Beyonce informing him at ear-shattering volume that she’s cooked a meal for him (naked).

“Where the hell you at?” she bellows. Harry jabs the ‘End’ button as hard as he can, mortified. He can _hear_ Louis’ fucking hyena laughter from here. 

He’s still chuckling when Harry stomps up to the villa. It takes one look at Harry’s face, still bright red and probably a little crazed because he’s _gaping_ , to set him off again. 

“Okay, I’m so doing this again,” Louis says, still giggling a couple of minutes later. “Your face is priceless.” 

The restaurant James chooses for their dinner is secluded and expensive enough that no one bats an eyelash at a group of celebrities coming in. Harry spends half an hour exchanging baby stories with Julia.

“They’re due in May?” Julia asks, looking at Jay’s ultrasounds on Harry’s phone. “Quite big already.”

“Early April,” Harry corrects her. “I’m hoping, at least. Then we could go see them before the tour.”

“If you’d asked me before doing it I would have told you not to,” Gary says from across the table, making Harry glance at him, then at Louis. Louis looks very much like he wants to bang his head against the wood. 

James leans closer to him and whispers, “They are talking about Louis’ pet project.”

“Oh, 5SOS.” Harry brightens. “We just shot a video, actually. I had to buy spray paint for the lyric version.”

“I mean, it’s great that you’re trying to get more control over the production,” Gary says. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s just a label requires constant work and close supervision, and you’re too busy with your own work.”

“I’m going to sit here and look at you pointedly,” Louis says. 

Harry squeezes Louis’ thigh under the table, gets a quick smile in return. They aren’t stumbling in the dark anymore. Maybe when they had first started, but by now they know how to work the industry. The label idea is more of a test run for the future. An investment of sorts. Louis doesn’t intend to let the public know he’s behind the label, or the album, or anything having to do with 5SOS at all. For now, he’s not even looking to break even on the bank loan they’ve had to take to shoot the music video.

“Lou can do it,” Harry says to Gary, hears how gruff his voice is and tries to reword. “He’s really good at politics.”

Louis snorts. “I have low tolerance for bullshit. You’re good at politics. I just don’t know how to take no for an answer.”

Gary barks a laugh. “That attitude will get you far. Give me a call if you need advice.” He gives Louis his number. They have to wait in polite silence for the waiter to bring out the main course and after that the conversation turns to football and more baby stories.

In the taxi on the way back Harry curls into Louis, tired. Louis has taken to showering with a strange local soap they have at Bird’s Hill. It makes him smell like the mountains, sharp and fresh and green. Harry makes a mental note to ask the hotel manager where he could buy some to bring home. Louis strokes his hair. His fingers scratch Harry’s scalp, making Harry want to purr. He hums and mouths at Louis’ earlobe only to be swatted away. 

“This car doesn’t even have a partition,” Louis tells him. 

“It’s my birthday. I’m calling shots,” Harry says. 

There’s a handful of hair in Louis’ hand now; he tugs at it, hard, making Harry gasp. “Yeah? Want to tell me what you’re going to call?”

Harry gulps. It’s hard to form words, because he loves his hair played with and Louis’ other hand is making lazy circles under his t-shirt, achingly close to the low waistband of his jeans.

Two can play this game. Harry scoots even closer, pressing his chest to Louis’ side, and lowers his voice. “We’re going to go slow,” he says, feeling Louis shiver and inch his fingers lower, five points of heat on Harry’s flushed skin. “I’m going to suck your fingers and you’ll fuck me on,” he considers, “four of them. You won’t even have to blow me the first time.”

Louis’ breath hitches. His voice is pitched so low Harry’s sure their driver wouldn’t be able hear them if he tried. “Is there going to be the second time?”

“Yeah.” The whole taxi thing is a thrill. Harry does remember he’s illegal in this country, they are both illegal, but it’s still fine, two drunk buddies sitting maybe a little bit too close. They’ve played that particular role before. “Eventually.”

By the time they stumble into the bedroom, Harry is so turned on he doesn’t think he’s going to last through his own game plan. He palms at his cock through the denim and - oh, that was a bad idea, Harry thinks. 

“I thought we were going with four fingers for the first time,” Louis says. There’s a hand in Harry’s hair again, pushing him down on the bed. 

“Not sure I’m gonna make it,” Harry is panting now, his eyes trained on Louis’ cock. 

“Oh but you must try, darling,” Louis purrs in that tone of voice he has when he rather expects to be obeyed. He grips Harry’s hip with one hand, drags his nails outward and lets go completely. 

Harry feels like he’s afloat, the few drinks he’s had making the room tip sideways at times. The alcohol has made him loose-limbed and so turned on he thinks he could come just from looking at Louis, not even touching himself. Louis has other plans, evidently. Harry’s eyes flow open when Louis shoves three fingers into him, slicked up but sudden and it burns at the edges, this side of painful. 

Harry chokes on his own saliva, whimpers. He’s buckling against Louis’ fingers. “More,” he grits out. 

Louis sinks his teeth into Harry’s hip, next to the reddened lines his nails have left, dragging a long, low moan from Harry’s throat. He sucks at the skin in the same rhythm his fingers are going in and out of Harry’s body. There’s too much to be concentrating on, too much pleasure, and Harry’s swimming in it barely able to take a breath. It doesn’t take long at all before Harry comes.

Louis doesn’t even let him go through the aftershocks before going at his cock as if he’s trying to suck his soul through it. He might be able to right now, Harry thinks. His vision is hazy at the edges. Louis’ fingers are still inside him, crooked slightly and pressing against his prostate. His cock is stuck at half-hard, the skin too damn sensitive to feel good right now, but oh, does it still feel good. Harry opens his mouth to breathe and sobs instead, arches back to feel _more_. 

Louis chuckles and it reverberates, dances on Harry’s skin and pulls him deeper. He can’t quite remember how to open his eyes. “You going to fuck me sometime this year?” he says. Thinks he says. At least half-certain he’s saying something to that effect.

“I’m thinking about it,” Louis says. His voice is wrecked. Harry has to look at him, has to. The sight of Louis like this - his hair in his eyes, the wet mess of precome and saliva on his lips and chin, his pupils blown up so much the blue is only a thin ring around the black, - is enough to make him hiss and come again.

Harry isn’t sure he can move his limbs, but he makes a valiant attempt to tug Louis up to kiss him. Louis tastes of his come and whiskey he’s had earlier. When they part he grins and braces both of his forearms on either side of Harry’s head. 

“No way,” Harry says.

Louis’ grin grows wider. 

“I will die,” Harry tells him. When Louis slides into him he can’t stop himself from crying out, feels his eyes prickle with tears at how too much this is.

“You place,” Louis says, moves so he’ll nudge Harry’s prostate with every thrust, “too little,” another thrust, then another, “trust in yourself.”

Harry can’t get hard so soon, but his body is _trying_ to, his insides clenching uselessly at each of Louis’ strokes. Louis is a mess above him, disheveled and panting. He sounds as broken as Harry feels. Harry digs his nails into his back and whimpers again when Louis’ rhythm grows erratic, trying to catch his mouth in a sloppy, uncoordinated kiss. 

After, when Louis slips out of him, Harry is fairly sure his heart is trying to beat out of his chest. 

“I’m going to die at the age of thirty from an orgasm.” 

“Better start thinking of a good epitaph, then,” Louis says, flippant, and turns on his side, throwing an arm across Harry’s stomach. “It was three back-to-back, not the second coming of Jesus. No need to get excited.”

“I’m sure you would’ve made Jesus come more than twice,” Harry says before he registers what he’d just said. “Oh my god,” he adds, because he just has to find a way to make this even worse, and then he’s laughing, unable to stop himself. 

“By the way, did you notice the birds on top of the bookshelf?” Louis asks him. “With the most spectacular bitchfaces?”

“The magpies?”

“We have to steal one,” Louis decides. 

“We’re not stealing wooden birds,” Harry says. “I still have nightmares about the duck.”

“Dame Martha enriched our lives, Styles.”

“I bet the Swedish police thinks so, too.” Harry says, still giggling. He feels so light he’s afraid he’ll fly away if he lets go of Louis.

He isn’t about to risk it, anyway.


End file.
